Behind the Blackthorn

The blackthorn is in bloom and its smell strangles me, it barges in and scratches my trachea just like the thorns of its twigs scratch my left cheek. The prickles leave behind bright red slivers of memory murmuring like the Carpathian springs.

I do not know what made me come to this particular shrub, nor why I ended up rummaging through it to see what hides behind its tender, newly formed leaves. All that matters is that they were there, the girls in white, the specters. They were coming one by one, either from behind the bushes or from among the thicket oaks. Some of them seemed to spring from the ground like sleepy snowdrops.

Finally, I found the perfect position, neither fully crouched, nor completely standing, somewhere in between like I always am. They all arrived as well, five in total, almost identical, with blond hair, tall, slim, in spotless-white ii[1], with long skirts, wide and volatile, adorned with delicate lace at the brim.

The sun had long set, but the fool moon bathes this opening in the forest, painting everything in shades of cold and sterile silver, similar to the lamps in hospitals.

Out of nowhere, some wood stacked in a pyramid of around half a meter in height appeared, ready for fire. One of them bends down a little, looking puzzled at the pile in front of her. They were dry, despite the heavy downpour of last night, with wall-shaking thunder and blinding lighting. She laughs unhindered and her laugh is so crystalline and pleasant. Suddenly, a flame envelops the branches. The others clap and giggle, hey jump up along the blaze and it looks as if they float back towards the ground. They're acting so naturally, so uncensored and I abruptly realize that I shouldn't be here.

The fire's already crackling wildly, dancing like the gypsies in the camp at the foot of the mountain. In a tent, one of them read my future in the tarot cards, in the palm of my hand and in the coffee grounds but she did not read into my soul. I didn't know how I ended up there either. They grabbed each other's hands, snapped their heads back and not even the cuckoo that had been screaming desperately ever since I arrived could not be heard anymore. The cemetery silence was broken by the clearest voice I've ever heard, and the other ladies joined her in a wordless song in which they probably praised the nature and thanked the wind.

While singing, they start rotating counterclockwise. They step lightly, methodically placing their bare and slightly muddy right foot in front of the left in a three-quarters time signature. I'm watching them holding my breath. I feel that if I move even a single sliver of muscle fiber, they will see me. What am I doing here? It's wrong, but I can't take my eyes off the shiny fairies. I've grown roots, as deep as the blackthorn's. My face is burning, but not from the fire or from an illness. I have butterflies in my stomach just like on the first date in high school.

Suddenly, the tonality changes, they become furious, the dance quickens, the song becomes a curse. Involuntarily, I crouch lower behind the shrub. I feel like they are looking at me, although they keep dancing merged into a tornado. I take a breath of air, trembling.

My eyes sparkle with flames brighter than those of the fire in the middle of the clearance. Something grabs me like a claw, it crashes into me like the waves of the Black Sea and, for a fraction of a second, I feel like I'm drowning. I'm holding my breath, waiting for something. My knees are about to give in, when I feel the gentle breeze of a summer wind and it's as if I finally let the arrow fly, the bow's string oscillating harmonically, relieved. I don't even hear the song anymore, I feel it in my entire body, my bones vibrating along. There isn't much time left.

I get up slowly, like in a trance. I'm not dressed in white but I hope they welcome me like this too. I step, more floating, towards the circle of girls spinning like my washing machine that I now leave behind, along with the detergent and softener. I will not need them where I'm going.

[1] Plural form of "ie", a traditional Romanian blouse worn by women

A bit of context

The girls dancing in the woods are the "Iele"(with an "i" in the beginning, not an "l"). The name would literally translate to "Them". There are many descriptions of them and their purpose, but the most common is that they are spirits (of the wind) that live in the sky and appear in the woods sometimes, dancing. Sometimes they are seen as evil spirits. They need to be addressed using either impartial or flattering words such as "The beauties", "The ladies". They like to torture men who watch them. They might lift them up in the air and make them dance, leaving the men exhausted and/or sick. The men might also become insane. They are loosely linked to the Whitsun.

More information: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iele